The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  “No.” Eamon shook his head with a quiet laugh. Mathaiah had not been broken – he had been fearless in his love and service. “He was a King’s man and, to the hour of his death, the King’s grace was with him.”

  He had not spoken loudly but the room filled with his voice. If so much as a mouse had heard him speak, then he was lost – a realization that stunned him to silence and demanded that he return in thrall to the halls of his grief.

  Do not bandy words with me, Eben’s son. Do not prattle witlessly on things that you do not and cannot ever understand.

  “But I do understand them.”

  And the voice was gone.

  In the silence that remained, Eamon listened to the rustle of branches in the night breeze. He watched the starlit window until he fell asleep.

  “Will there be anything else, Lord Goodman?”

  It was the morning of the twentieth. Eamon had risen early, refreshed, and stood by his window wrapped in his cloak. He watched the city awaken, the sun’s palette painting the colours of a new day into the city’s stones and streets. He saw the tall towers of the palace, and had almost heard the distant running of the waves and cries of the seafarers as another ship came to port. He imagined its mast like a spindle, woven round with a bright white sail, shuddering as the ship met its moorings. He had seen the first ensigns leave the college and the last return from their night patrols.

  Eamon looked up from where he carefully halved a western star fruit. “No, thank you, Mr Slater. Is everything in order for this evening?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good.”

  “My lord, Captain Anderas is waiting for you in the entrance hall. He asked me to let you know.”

  Eamon glanced up from the unruly fruit. “Did he say anything else?”

  “That you had made arrangements for this meeting yesterday.” Pallor touched Slater’s face. “My lord, should I have sent him away –?”

  “Of course not!” Eamon laughed gently. “Slater, you fear me too much. You are performing your duty, and so is he.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Slater did not look overly convinced.

  “You may tell Captain Anderas that he has missed breakfast, that he shall rue that heartily, and that I shall be with him shortly.” Eamon set down his knife and began working segments out of the fruit. “Have you breakfasted this morning, Slater?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Be certain to do so: you have a long day ahead of you.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Slater bowed low and left. Quietly, Eamon finished his breakfast.

  Anderas was indeed waiting for him in the entrance hall. As Eamon entered he saw the captain standing in the centre of the circular space, his hands folded behind his back and his head tilted back as he admired the ceiling intently.

  Eamon stepped beside the captain and looked up.

  “Good morning, Lord Goodman.”

  “Good morning, captain.”

  “You see the style of work there, my lord?” Anderas pointed up at a trailing leaf motif that bordered the ceiling’s rim – the painted vine that ran around the whole hallway, hemming in skies filled with flocking birds. “It’s much later in style than the building itself; very much in keeping with early Dunthruik. I imagine that the original was painted over, whatever it was.”

  “Is that today’s historical oddity?”

  “Yes, my lord. And are you well?”

  “Yes.”

  Anderas smiled. “I am glad. You have a little practice to do, my lord.”

  “I’ve already eaten breakfast,” Eamon told him.

  “Even fruit?”

  “Even fruit.”

  “Then that was a foolish move on your part, my lord,” Anderas told him, “for I cannot renege on my promise to teach you to ride.”

  “No?”

  “No.

  “I condone your nobility.”

  “And I your folly. You will have to ride on a full stomach.”

  “And you, captain, will have to endure the consequences of that sore trial.”

  “I consider myself well equal to the task.”

  Eamon laughed. “Very well, captain! We shall put your courage to the test.”

  Anderas led the way to the stables at the side of the Handquarters. They passed Lord Heathlode. The Hand bowed low.

  “Good morning, Lord Goodman; Captain Anderas.”

  “Good morning,” Eamon answered, offering him a smile. To his delight, the Hand returned it. He had never thought that he would love such a gesture, but the smile was not forced nor duplicitous – it was a smile of genuine greeting.

  “Enjoy your ride, my lord,” Heathlode added as he passed on.

  “Thank you.”

  The Handquarters were provisioned with fine stables and plenty of horses to serve the household’s every need. There were packhorses and palfreys, horses accustomed to swift riding and chargers for the thick of war. All were impeccably kept, and the stables sounded with the signs and calls of stablehands as they duly fed and served the beasts.

  Two horses – saddled, bridled, and attended – awaited them. One was Anderas’s own, given to him by Ashway on his promotion. Eamon did not think that the horse presented to him was the same as he had ridden to Ravensill. Many of the horses were tawny or greys, and as Eamon approached the well-tended grey that was offered to him, he thought of the handsome and intelligent beast that had carried him to Hughan. He wondered if this new horse would be as indulgent of his lack of skill.

  He mounted swiftly, and took hold of the reins. The horse shuffled its weight, adjusting, then trotted forward a few steps. Eamon tugged it back a little as Anderas came up beside him.

  “Are you set, Lord Goodman?”

  “Yes,” Eamon answered. He felt nervous in the saddle and wondered whether his own preoccupation with not being a terribly able rider was indeed the root of the problem. He saw the ease with which Anderas caught up the reins to urge his steed on, then glanced self-consciously at his own hands and reins. Setting gentle pressure to the horse’s flanks, he obtained a few forward steps.

  “You have to be confident, my lord,” Anderas told him. “And you have to trust the horse.”

  “And it me, I don’t doubt.”

  “You know more about this than you like to think.”

  The horse snorted heavily. Eamon looked at the captain. “I’m not so sure.”

  They went to the North Gate, the horses’ hooves clattering crisply on the cobbles. There was some rideable ground beyond the North Gate, just before it reached the hills. It was towards this part of Dunthruik’s plain that Anderas directed them.

  “The knights use the fields nearby to exercise their chargers,” Anderas explained, “and the college sometimes brings officers out this far. Often the riding field does as well, but there’s nothing like real turf. How is your gallop, Lord Goodman?”

  “More poor than middling,” Eamon confessed.

  “That would not serve you well on a field of battle.”

  “It has not hindered me thus far.”

  “Then you have not had to ride in a battle thus far. But if one day you do, you will be grateful that we had this conversation.” Anderas grinned, and for a moment Eamon imagined how the cadets and ensigns must look up to this man; he was utterly at ease in service and authority. “Apart from that, Lord Goodman, there is nothing like riding this plain.”

  Anderas urged his horse forward – it seemed but a moment before the captain whirled away across the churning turf. Eamon laughed, delighted by the sight, and followed him.

  It was the second hour when they re-entered the city. As they trotted through onto Coronet Rise, Eamon still felt the exhilaration of wind rushing through his hair and the powerful rhythm of the horse as it beat across the tumbled plain. Drawing the horse back into a canter and then a trot had been difficult, but Anderas had aided him by calling out instructions and bringing his own horse up beside and slowing it.

  “What did you make of that
, my lord?” Anderas asked. The guards at the gate bowed low as they passed.

  “It is easier than I remembered it.”

  “That bodes well for tomorrow.”

  The sound of cobbles filled Eamon’s hearing as they passed down the road, and the smell of fresh bread permeated the air. There were carts filled at last with grain, and while its price was not low, it was less than it had been of late. A group of soldiers from the college passed by, led by Lieutenant Scott. The group saluted.

  “Good morning, Lord Goodman!” Scott called.

  “And to you, gentlemen.”

  Eamon turned his horse towards the Ashen when a sudden noise reached him. It was like the sound of pelting rain or rushing water striking hard for about ten seconds, followed by a terrible silence.

  He looked across at Anderas.

  “I do not know, my lord –”

  Then the screaming started.

  Eamon did not pause to think. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and commanded it forward. The horse leapt into action, charging down the streets of Dunthruik as easily as it had moved across the plain. He yelled at those in the streets to clear his way, and they did. Maybe they followed him, maybe they fled – he did not know, for he neither saw nor heard. All he saw was the quarter skyline littered with dust and debris; all he heard were the cries buried in the labyrinthine streets. He followed them both.

  Suddenly he broke clear of the narrow roads and raced up a cobbled incline. A small courtyard opened up before him, the air choked with smoke and wails. Pulling back sharply on the reins he halted his horse and stared.

  The yard was hemmed with tall buildings, each in various states of disrepair. Timbers showed through threadbare stonework, abandoned beams jutted out through walls to where other rooms had once been, and windows gazed down like eyeless faces, weeping fissures into the walls.

  The ring of buildings round the courtyard was broken: one of them lay in a mass of crushing stone and splintered wood, its rocky entrails spilling out into the gorged, broken square. From within and without the screaming came. The building had collapsed and now its dying breaths filled the lungs of those who lived and died about it. Frail figures were caught among the wreckage, some at the edges trying to pull free, others lying still, their faces palled with dust.

  “Captain!” Eamon yelled, for he knew that Anderas would be there. He had to shout to be heard over the terrible wails, and the deathly silence between them. “Get as many Gauntlet and militia as you can find. Bring them here.”

  Anderas wheeled his steed and careered through the narrow streets. Eamon dismounted, hastily threw the reins about a nearby post, and waded into the sea of dust.

  He ran up to the nearest group of people – men and women wretchedly tugging their fellows from the edge. They did not see him at first.

  “How many are in there?” he asked.

  “We don’t know – at least the Turrens,” answered a young man. He turned. Recognizing to whom he spoke, his face grew paler than the ashen dust that covered him. “My lord –”

  “You have strong arms?”

  Trembling, the young man nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then come with me.” Eamon turned to another man who stood nearby. “Captain Anderas is coming with aid. When he does, tell him to set them to recovering the wounded.”

  “Yes, lord.” The man tried to bow, but coughed from the dust.

  Eamon swept across to the rubble. Cries for help came from within the writhing beast of stone and its cutting jaws of wood. The man he had called to help hung back.

  The voices that called for help were farther in, and Eamon knew that he was going to have to climb over the rubble to reach them. It looked as though the higher floors of the buildings had come down but that the lowest had mostly – and miraculously – withstood the impact.

  Eamon laid his foot onto the nearest edge of stone and tested it with his weight: not entirely stable, but it held. He looked back at the young man – who gaped. There was no mistaking that the Hand who had served a two-crown dinner now meant to brave the rubble of a fallen building.

  “Will you follow me?”

  The young man looked once at the rocking stone, then back at Eamon. Their gazes met. A change came across the dark eyes.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Reaching out, Eamon stepped onto the stone, setting first one foot and then another on the treacherous floorway.

  Picking a path across it was like choosing between a noose and high water: in places the ruins dropped into seemingly cavernous pits; in others what were once walls now made impassable barriers of stone. The debris shifted. The wooden beams were cracked and torn, jutting from their pools of stone like the snapped trunks of a desecrated forest.

  Eamon made his way carefully around them, minding pitfalls and scrabbling over the collapsing paths, struggling with every step not to lose his balance and fall into one of the pits.

  The cries grew louder, but as Eamon halted to take his bearings, they stopped. He froze; behind him his companion followed with uncertain steps. Back in the square, he heard slowing hooves. Anderas had returned, and with the captain he heard the crisp sound of Gauntlet officers giving orders. But he could no longer hear the voice that he had been following.

  He searched the blasted landscape of stone, feeling its eerie quiet. His heart beat fast. He wiped at his face; his gloves were scuffed from where he had battled with the walls.

  “Help is here,” he shouted, “but you must keep calling.” He was met with a disquieting silence. “Can you hear me?”

  “Uncle?” The quailing voice was young. His heart went out to it.

  “My name is Eamon,” he answered, not caring for the panicked look that tore across the face of the young man by him. “I have come to help you. Are you alone?”

  “No sir, m-my cousin is here. She’s hurt…”

  “Are you?”

  The voice faltered. “I… I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “E-e-ellen.”

  “Ellen, I need you to keep speaking to me so that I can find you.” Eamon steadied himself as stones slipped away from beneath his feet. “Can you describe where you are?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered, pausing now and then to cough. Eamon charted the stones, following her voice. “I’m in a kind of w-w-well, between two very t-t-tall walls. They fell in from the sides –” A touch of panic reached her voice.

  “Ellen, are there any tall beams near you?” Eamon had followed her voice to where the stones and walls seemed to have formed a ditch marked by two heavy, jutting timbers. It was dark below and the shifting shafts of light were marred by dust as it struggled to settle.

  “Y-y-yes; t-t-two of them.”

  “I think I am very near you, Ellen,” Eamon spoke firmly but gently, and stepped carefully up to the ledge of the hollow fall, taking hold of one of the beams to steady himself. “Can you see light from where you are?”

  “There’s light in a hole above me, sir.”

  He leaned out over the hole before him. “Can you see me?”

  There was a long pause. Eamon waited.

  “Y-y-yes! I can s-s-ee you!”

  Eamon looked over his shoulder to where the young man was picking his way across the stones and beams towards him. What seemed like miles away he saw Anderas, Lieutenant Scott, and a large group of Gauntlet and militia clearing away the initial rubble in the search for survivors. Some of the soldiers dealt with the dead while others moved the injured away from the clinging dust.

  He looked back down the hole. “Ellen, can you stand where I can see you?”

  He heard shuffling, and stones scrabbling and moving, and became painfully aware of how fragile the chamber had to be. It was a miracle that the walls had fallen as they did – it had saved the girl and her cousin, keeping the force of the rest of the collapse from them. “Do it carefully, Ellen!”

  At last a figure came into view below. He realized that the hole
was probably a little less than twice his height in depth.

  “Can your cousin move, Ellen?”

  The girl below him looked young, though she was so gaunt and straggly that he could not guess her age. She was plastered with dust and there was a long, deep cut along the side of her face.

  “No sir,” the girl stammered. “She isn’t m-m-moving –”

  “Ellen, I want you to stay there while I come down.” Eamon straightened up, found his balance, and quickly undid the cloak at his shoulders.

  “Strong-arm!” he called. The young man struggled to his side.

  “M-m-my lord?” he stammered.

  “Hold on to this.” Eamon drew the cloak out into a long, thick line and pressed one corner into the youth’s hands. The other end he wrapped round his own hand, weaving it about his wrist and fingers.

  The young man looked so surprised that it seemed a wonder he did not fall into the hole. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Take a firm footing, Strong-arm.”

  The young man broadened his stance. Eamon peered once more into the hole, then turned his back towards it and set his feet carefully against the stones. Then, entrusting his weight entirely to the young man, he edged his way into the pit. The stones scrabbled underfoot, darting from him almost as soon as he stepped on them, but he managed to work his way down.

  His feet touched the ground. His breathing pounded in his ears. Stones fell in over him, and he sneezed in the dust as they struck his head and shoulders. When his eyes cleared, he turned to the girl. She darted forward and her frail, bleeding hands seized hold of his. She trembled.

  “Ellen,” he said, bowing to move beneath the debris, “where is your cousin?”

  The girl jerked him towards the murky depths of the shallow cave. Eamon called towards the daylight. “Strong-arm!”

  “My lord?” The young man’s voice seemed faint, as though from a great distance.

  “Stay there. And don’t fall in.”

  Eamon looked back at the quivering girl. The stones and timbers around them boomed as though under strain.

  He pressed her hand. “Show me to your cousin.”

  She tugged him on into the hole. Though it was early morning it seemed some strange and unnatural night within the building’s entrails. Eamon made out the shapes of objects – perhaps a table, or what remained of one – under the dust. He had to duck to follow the girl.